Inebriated
by Inuluvr
Summary: One shot. Riddler drabbles written originally for tumblr. Extreme angst on the Riddler's part, exploring a little of his origin story. Rated M for language and violence. Batman is a little nicer in this... more like the B:TAS version who actually cares.


I felt sick. My head was pounding and my vision blurred as I fumbled for the keys in my pocket. My breath curled like steam from my parted mouth as I stood in the frozen air. I felt a wave of nausea flood over me and I stopped, leaning heavily against the door of the apartment. I bent my head to the ground, waiting for the vomit to come. It never did; it rolled about in my stomach and made me miserable, but it refused to leave.

_Twenty three_. The number sloshed about in my mind as I turned away from the door, my back leaning against the dirty wood. I slid to the ground and waited to regain my balance. _Twenty three_ shots of vodka in _one hour_. I didn't know how I was still alive… I never drank—swore to myself I wouldn't, after I saw what it did to my father. I knew it was dangerous to drink so much with such a low tolerance, but I really didn't care anymore. I honestly don't remember what possessed me to do it, either. I just felt the urge. The need to drown myself in that burn…

It had worked for a while, but my damned brain had started to slog through the thick of the alcohol. My thoughts had begun to run rampant, and I hadn't been able to stop them. My mind wanted to think and dwell, while every other part of me just wanted to forget. It's the curse of drinking for me… I'm normally able to keep myself sane by burying the memories deep in my mind, but when inebriated, they always surface. Why the _hell_ had I thought this was a good idea?

I didn't remember going to the bar, ordering the shots one by one, or drinking them. No. Scratch that. I remembered downing them… wanting to gag at the terrible taste. And I remembered the aftermath: the bartender cutting me off and losing my temper. He had landed a hard punch… I was certain that I would wake up with a black eye in the morning. Of course, I left in better shape than he did. Hell, he didn't leave at all. I struck him pretty hard over the head with my cane before staggering out of the bar. I might have even killed him. But I didn't care. It wasn't like it mattered.

My nausea subsided a little, and I tried to pick myself off the ground. It took several attempts, but I managed to pull myself together enough to stand. I clutched at the wall with one hand, and at my stomach with the other. The acids in my gut burned, making my body feverish and sensitive to the bitter cold. Every part of me ached. I wanted to die.

Slowly, I removed the hand from my abdomen and reached in my pocket, searching again for the keys. My fingers clumsily found the keyring and pulled it out. With effort, I sorted through the keys. I held them about an inch from my face; it was the farthest I could see without my vision doubling. I singled out the plain, dirty key that fit the equally filthy door. Its familiarity sickened me. I turned, distracted briefly as a loud car drove down the empty street. The noise pounded in my head, and the headbeams flashed into my eyes, blinding me momentarily. I blinked, cursing as my vision slowly returned.

Irritated, I shoved the key into the lock. Or at least, attempted to; it took about four tries before I got it right. With some persuasion, the key turned and clicked. I pushed hard on the door expecting resistance, but it swung in easily and I fell on the cold tile floor of the apartment's entrance, my cane clattering to the ground beside me. I pushed myself up with my dwindling strength, trying to regain my balance as I got on my hands and knees.

Without warning, my body froze. I felt my heart race as memories flashed through my head. I stared, wide-eyed at the stained tiles. I could hear my father shouting, feel the hot blood drip from my mouth, and see it as it pooled beneath me on the tile floor. I squeezed my eyes shut and let out a weak groan. I didn't want to remember this. I didn't want to relive it again…

I can't say for sure how long it was before I gathered the courage to open my eyes again. My vision was still blurring, but I could make out the stains on the tile. They were a perfect match to the blood that had spattered across the floor all those years ago. Evidence of my past colored the floor like a macabre painting. That fucker. He couldn't even be bothered to clean up his messes. Shakily, I rose to my feet, slowly picking up my cane. The door stood ajar behind me, cold air rushing in from the outside. I clumsily reached back and managed to shut it, leaving me in the dark, empty apartment.

I didn't need lights to navigate through this place, however. I had grown up here… learned to creep through the darkness… something that had come from years of practice. Stealing food from the kitchen after my father had gone to bed, sneaking out of the house to escape the desperately oppressive atmosphere. I had memorized the layout of the place… every floorboard that creaked, every door that squeaked… every little noise that would wake my father and in turn… punish me.

Of course, it had been years since I had been here. Logic dictated that with age, some of the other floorboards and hinges had become more musical. In my drunken state, I didn't care or even give it much thought. There was no threat. Not any more. He was gone. _Finally…. Finally… gone_.

Dead.

The word rattled in my head as my eyes began to adjust to the darkness. All of the years I had spent planning the perfect murder; the perfect 'fuck you' to my father for everything he had done to me. The perfect way to show him that I had finally out-smarted him. That I _was _ intelligent. That I _was_ worth something. And most importantly… that _he_ was _wrong_.

All of that planning… the hours I spent fantasizing the execution. What I would say to him… the things I had always thought about when he colored me with bruises and drew blood from my flesh. How I would watch the life leave his eyes and gloat over his dead body… The satisfaction of knowing that I had rid the world of this horrible abomination of a human being. All of this… and a heart attack had beaten me to it.

Fate was such a fucker sometimes.

I had gotten the news earlier that day. A call on my cell to inform me that former officer William Nashton had passed away in Gotham General four hours previous. I was asked to come in and take care of the body. I told them to burn it and hung up. I didn't know what to think. A mixture of emotions swam through my head, making me anxious and fidgety. My initial reaction was to sit down and close my eyes. I tried to sort through everything I was feeling—the shock, the relief, the confusion, the frustration… the happiness.

It was when the shock began to wear off, that I realized something. The happiness I felt was empty. I sat with my trembling hands covering my face, tears leaking from my eyes. Why the hell was I crying? Why, after everything he had done to me, was I mourning his death? This was something I had always thought I would celebrate. So why, now that he was dead, did I feel so alone?

That was when part of me realized… everyone who had ever had an ounce of interest in my existence… was dead. My mother had passed when I was young—around six or seven years old. My grandparents had ignored me since the day I was born… there were no aunts or uncles that I knew of… and I was an only child. There was no one else. This was it. In that moment, it was as though the last essence of my inner child—the one who clung on to life so dearly, and worked so hard to prove himself—began to slowly die with the last of my kin.

The phone had rung for the next several hours, until I threw it at a wall and smashed it to pieces. I didn't want to deal with the morons at the hospital. They didn't understand. No one did, and no one ever would.

It was shortly after that I ended up at the bar… everything after that was a blur. More actually, like a blackout. I couldn't remember anything.

I didn't know what they did with the body, and I really didn't care. He could be buried in a ditch, or fed to the stray dogs, for all I cared. In the latter case, at least he'd be doing something for the world—something he had never managed to achieve whilst alive.

I stumbled up the stairs, breathing heavily as another rush of nausea overcame me. I gripped the railing tightly, my knuckles turning white with pressure. I dry-heaved, my diaphragm jolting and painfully wracking my entire body. It had been a while since I had been this sick. I wondered if it wasn't just the alcohol that was affecting me, but physical anxiety as well. Blundering up the last few stairs, I managed to make it into the hallway. I leaned heavily on the wall for support. I would have used my cane, but my hand shook uneasily, and I knew it wouldn't end well if I tried.

I dragged myself towards the living room, pausing in the doorway. My body was shaking violently now… I knew that this time, I had gone too far. I felt delirious, and the world spun mercilessly beneath my feet. Fighting desperately to stay conscious, I took an unsteady step into the room. I felt my knees give out, and before I knew what had happened, I was on the ground.

I sat in silence for a few minutes, my mind racing as it tried to reclaim stability. I had only gotten this drunk a few times before, but I had never felt this way before. A shudder ran down my spine, and I lurched as my stomach rolled again. I reached a quivering hand to my head, wincing as the cold skin of my palm touched my burning forehead. I was running a fever… A very, very high one.

"Get up, _boy._" For a moment, I felt pure terror take hold of me. How… How was it possible? I raised my head in alarm, eyes stretched wide. He sat in his favorite armchair, looking scornfully down at me on the floor. He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward.

"Am I speaking another language, _brat?_ I said _get up._" I remained frozen in place while my entire body shook with fear. I should have seen how irrational it was, I should have been able to tell that I was hallucinating…but I wasn't thinking clearly at the time.

"I SAID GET UP." Without warning, a searing pain shot up my side. I let out a strangled shout and rolled onto my back. I felt blood soak through my clothes, as tears ran uncontrollably down my face.

"You useless piece of SHIT. You're too stupid to even follow simple orders!" I felt a blunt blow to my stomach, knocking the wind out of my lungs. "Why don't you just do the world a favor and die?" He lowered his voice to a threatening growl, standing up from his chair. He stepped over to me and lifted grabbed my hair, pulling my head up. "You're not going to do anything with your life anyway; you'll just end up one of those nameless criminals on the street, living like a rat." He slammed my head into the ground, glaring down at me with those remorseless eyes. "Hell, you'll die a dirty little piece of shit. No one will even miss you, kid. You'll just be another John Doe found on the street. Go kill yourself." I curled into a ball as he continued to shout obscenities and insults while he struck me. I felt blood froth out of my mouth, and I gasped for air. I was terrified. Completely and utterly paralyzed with fear.

And then suddenly, there was a deafening silence. The pain was completely gone, though my body continued to shake. I opened my eyes to find myself lying on the floor of the empty apartment, curled into myself. I remained still for several minutes, adrenaline still pumping through my system. It had been a long time since I had last had hallucinations this vivid…

My cane lay a foot to my left, and I picked it up as I uneasily got to my feet. I looked at the armchair, now riddled with stains and blemishes, and scowled. He still haunted me… even after all these years. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't forget…. Couldn't forget the things he had done to me, the things he had said. The ideas he had burned into my mind since I was young. It wasn't just the hallucinations that reminded me… being alive was enough to revive the memories. I felt anger boil hotly inside me. He had made me like this. _He _was the reason _I_ was such a failure.

In a fit of rage, I turned to a table pushed against the far wall. I swung my cane violently, smashing the four vases that had been sitting on the dusty shelf. They shattered with a pleasing reverberation, spilling shards of glass across the tabletop and floor. However, my balance was still a bit off. The sudden movement made me dizzy and I fell forward, catching my fall on the table.

At first I didn't notice anything, but my mind slowly registered after a moment. A white hot pain shot through my hands and into my arms. I looked down, realizing that several shards of glass had embedded themselves deeply in my palms. I let out a moan and threw myself against a wall. I watched as blood began to ooze from the slices, running messily down my arms and dripping to the ground with a sick patter. It was just what I needed… not only was I completely inebriated and feverish, but now bleeding profusely as well.

I knew I needed to get help. I knew I wasn't well. But somewhere deep in my mind, a little voice told me that it didn't matter. If I died… I _would _be just another fallen criminal. No one would care… Most of Gotham would probably be relieved. I mulled this over in my mind a bit, until I got an eerie feeling that I was being watched. I knew this feeling too well to be fooled into believing that it was just my delusions. I knew someone _was_ here, and I knew who it was.

"What the hell do you want?" I managed to growl. I waited, wearily watching the darkness for movement. Batman emerged, frowning as he studied me. The bastard had no idea what was going on. "'m-not here… illegally." I slurred, trying to stand without leaning on the wall.

"I know that, Edward." He said, watching as I swayed on my feet. He took a step forward, holding out a hand to steady me, and I recoiled.

"Don't… don't-touch me." I was feeling lightheaded now, and I had to concentrate on staying conscious. "I… I don't want…you here. What're you doing-anyway?" I asked, my hands pulsating with pain.

"I'm here to help you, Edward." He was silent for a minute, and I could see that he was studying me closely- trying to read my movements. "I don't want you to do anything… stupid." I let out a bitter laugh, and fell into the wall again. I didn't even care if I was showing weakness anymore.

"Hah!" I exclaimed drunkenly, "What-d'you even think… I'm doing here?" I asked. "I'm jussst… picking shit up. Before th'auction." Batman scowled, though his scowl was sadder than I had ever seen it. For once he wasn't just angry… It looked more like… pity.

"I'm not a fool, Edward." He pointed to my pocket, where I had concealed a loaded handgun. "You should know this by now." I smiled weakly as he said this. He was right, I did know better.

"Yeah…" My smile faded slowly. "But… doesn't matter. 's-not like anyone cares." I looked at him best as I could, my vision swimming. "It's better this-way-"

"No, Edward, it's not." His voice cut through my drunken spiel, his eyes boring into mine.

"Who th'fuck cares, Batman? Name someone… anyone… who'll give-a-shit." For a moment he remained silent, and the only sound was my blood spattering to the ground. He broke the silence with his booming voice.

"I do, Edward. You are a brilliant man. If you were to use your intelligence for good, rather than petty crimes, you would find yourself with a promising future." It took a moment for my mind to process what he had said. I opened my mouth to respond, but was cut short as I became lightheaded. My knees gave in beneath me, and I crumbled to the floor. Batman stepped gingerly over to me, grabbing my wrist—careful not to touch my raw palms.

"We can discuss this later, when you're more healthy. Can you walk? You need to go to a hospital."

"No… No hospitals…" I managed to breathe. I could hear a frustrated sigh escape Batman's lips.

"Fine. But you need help. And soon. I'll take you back to the batcave, and we'll take care of you there. Now… can you walk?" I nodded slowly, trying to stand. I quickly found that I could not, however, as my legs refused to move. Batman noticed my struggle and shook his head. "Nigma… you shouldn't have done this." I searched for words—some clever phrase to reply with—but for the first time in a long time, none came. My head swam as I slipped in and out of consciousness. I could feel him wrap his arms around me… pick me up and carry me out of the apartment.

The cold air swirled around us as he took me outside. The cold against my feverish skin made me feel lethargic and exhausted. I wanted nothing more than to let go… to give in to the sweet darkness of death that beckoned to me. I let my eyelids fall and my body go limp. I seemed to be falling….

"Stay with me, Nigma." I felt a light slap on my cheeks and I was jolted from the abyss. "Don't give up. I won't let you die. Not like this."

"I….deserve…" I tried with a whisper, my words still slurred.

"No, Nigma. Your father was wrong. You may not believe it, but he was."

I couldn't stay conscious any longer. My mind was simply too drained. I felt the darkness tug at me again, and I let it envelope me. This time, however, it was not death that called to me, but sleep. I slowly drifted off, my thoughts settling contently for the first time in a long, long time.

I had been blind all along. Though I prided myself in my keen deductive skills, I had failed to notice something right under my nose… something so obvious. All this time I had spent trying to prove myself... to show _him_ that I was worth something. And my efforts had always been in vain. And now I understood why. _He—_the _bat_—had never doubted me… it was I who had always been so skeptical. I had been foolish…I was not alone.

For the first time in years, I felt safe.


End file.
